


everything has changed

by psikeval



Series: words, hands, hearts [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The messenger arrives when Cassandra has nearly finished her morning practice, and stands politely away from the training dummy until he’s acknowledged. The note he extends is neatly folded, flawless calligraphy on heavy white vellum.</p><p>
  <i>Join me for breakfast, if you’ve time to spare.  –Mme. Vivienne</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything has changed

 

She wakes before dawn, when a sharp chill lingers in the mountain air and the grass in the courtyard is still damp with dew. It has always been her favorite time of day, to rise in quiet and gather that stillness within herself before she ever grips a sword. The blade is sharp from Blackwall’s borrowed whetstone, and her mind feels clear, unburdened. Prepared.

The first strikes of her sword are incredibly satisfying when Cassandra can feel each aspect of her form sliding perfectly into place, her balance sure and every movement smooth, all as it should be. It’s a feeling akin to the meditative peace of her vigil, all the more welcome for not requiring such stifling solitude and stillness.

The messenger arrives when Cassandra has nearly finished her morning practice, and stands politely away from the training dummy until he’s acknowledged. The note he extends is neatly folded, flawless calligraphy on heavy white vellum.

_Join me for breakfast, if you’ve time to spare. –Mme. Vivienne_

“Thank you,” she says, and the messenger nods and departs. When he’s gone Cassandra glances up at the balcony over the stairs to the main hall, but cannot tell if anyone is there. The sun has not yet entirely risen, and her eyesight is no longer at its best without proper light.

She places the note on the bench nearby and pauses only a moment, to wipe sweat from her brow, before raising her weapon again for the last few attacks.

The exercise is bracing, and after a quick cold bath from her basin and a change of clothes, Cassandra feels energized, the slight ache in her limbs only a pleasant reminder of the work she’s done. After such a morning, it can hardly be too great an indulgence to take a moment’s rest, a fact of which she reminds herself as she climbs the stairs from the main hall.

Vivienne’s part of the castle looks as pristine as ever, every furnishing neat and gleaming, the cool air quiet enough that Cassandra expects it took a muffling spell, common enough in crowded Circles. When she steps through the stained-glass doors to the stone balcony overlooking the grounds of Skyhold, Vivienne smiles broadly at her and gestures for Cassandra to sit across from her at a table spread with tea, fruit and bread.

“You made it. Wonderful. It’s good to see you, my dear.”

“Good morning.” She seats herself carefully, ever wary of breaking something fragile just by looking at it wrong. One can never trust Orlesian-crafted porcelain.

“I do hope I haven’t disrupted your routine.” Vivienne arches an eyebrow, the rest of her almost preternaturally still, not the slightest hint of motion in her delicately arranged limbs. She is difficult to read, more so here than when they are traveling, but Cassandra thinks there might be real concern behind her flawless manners; Vivienne has always been considerate of Cassandra, treating her as if she were still the Right Hand. It is… flattering.

“No,” she says. Then, when it feels too abrupt: “Not at all.”

“Then I’m delighted you could spare the time. Would you like some tea?” Vivienne asks, picking up the teapot. Her ungloved hand looks startlingly soft against the porcelain, gripping the handle with perfect steadiness, and all of it takes Cassandra by surprise. She’d expected to serve Vivienne, if anything. The reverse feels… odd.

Rather than mention it, she simply murmurs her thanks, waiting until the pot is withdrawn to sweeten the rich black tea in her cup. The brew is similar in scent to what she’s used to, if overlaid with unfamiliar spices.

“Cassandra, dear. If I might ask, have you given any thought to what you will do, when the Inquisition’s work is done and order has been restored?”

There’s a brief, embarrassing silence as Cassandra finds herself caught up in watching the rim of Vivienne’s teacup, the gentle indentation it makes on the fullness of her lower lip just before she drinks. “The Inquisitor has encouraged me to rebuild the Seekers of Truth, if I believe they can be saved,” Cassandra manages hastily, before the hesitation can be remarked upon.

“Then I take it you do?”

“Yes.”

“And would you settle for such a task,” she persists, her voice so deliberately light that even Cassandra senses the significance, “when the clerics would name you our next Divine?”

Whatever look passes across her face—no doubt some mix of horror and distaste—it brightens Vivienne’s expression in turn; the genuine tilt of her smile is always a joy to see. Still, Cassandra’s feelings on the matter are too strong to hold back a reply. “I would rather go back to Nevarra and take my chances with dragons than sit upon the Sunburst Throne.”

“Against a dragon, I should think your victory is far more assured,” Vivienne concedes.

“The worst it will do is breathe fire at me,” she points out, nearly laughing. As a girl, she was often told by visiting relatives that her smile was sharp and unpleasant, unfit for polite company even before the scars, but Vivienne has never seemed to mind.

The tea is strong and rich, the spices blending well with honey, and while Cassandra chases the faint aftertaste of chocolate, Vivienne takes a careful bite of a crumbling square pastry. It seems she’s still waiting for Cassandra to speak further on the subject. Now if only she had the words to do it properly, or knew how to arrange them.

Finally she sets her half-empty teacup down, leaves her fingers half-curled around it for warmth, and sighs. “I do not want Thedas to remember the Seekers for the worst of their mistakes. But is that only a misguided sense of loyalty? Perhaps I spent too many years as a Seeker to judge.”

“You were _given_ to the Seekers, my dear, but you need not have stayed with them. As ever, you give yourself far too little credit.”

Cassandra frowns, unable to see where this might be going. “What credit would you have me take?”

“Once you’d come of age and completed your training, the decision to remain among the Seekers was yours. You chose a life of searching for answers, and protecting the people of Thedas from a position of greater authority than any mere templar, both of which are entirely noble pursuits. And before you protest,” she adds, with a frank and fond amusement that sends Cassandra’s heart stumbling in her chest, “I refer to your character, not to your birth.”

For a moment there seems to be nothing Cassandra can say, but as she casts about for the right words, a different question occurs to her. “What sort of life did you choose?”

Vivienne reaches over and gently tugs her hand away from its loose hold on the teacup, soft fingertips brushing a dry and calloused palm. At first Cassandra assumes she’s being corrected in some issue of manners and tries to withdraw, perhaps to place her hands safely on her lap, but Vivienne only holds on and laces their fingers together on the tabletop. Her thumb strokes back and forth along the heel of Cassandra’s hand, and her skin is like silk, so startlingly soft that Cassandra's mouth goes dry with nerves. It's difficult to breathe.

There’s little mistaking her meaning. Vivienne is a deliberate woman, every move calculated with precision. To do this now, she must have planned to do it all along. And when Cassandra cannot keep herself from staring, all but slack-jawed at what she’s been offered with so little fanfare, Vivienne merely shrugs, the slightest movement of her shoulders.

“One that’s my own.”

 

 


End file.
